Boots and mascarpone….

Firstly I have a treat for boot freaks…

40 Photos at the stables….thigh high lace up boots, and leather basque….boot freaks are going to LOVE these!

Go buy them….and Ill consider putting the other 40 up for sale….

I had an email from useless stuart, with a story, Im not sure if he wrote it or copied it from somewhere, but I liked it anyway….

Thump.  “Where shall I find Mascarpone cheese?”

 

Thump?  Well the question came so sharply and out of the blue that I nearly leapt out of my skin.  I was stacking shelves on the tinned vegetable aisle in the supermarket and was lost in a little fancy of how to display the marrowfat peas so that they were distinct from the garden peas – when this sharp, and I confess, incredibly sexily assertive voice, demanded to know where the Mascarpone Cheese was.

 

Indeed, her voice was so thumpingly assertive I actually dropped a tin in fright  – but even so, as the words sank in, even though I had never heard of Mascarpone cheese, I was already thinking; “It’ll be beside the cheese, you stupid woman, have you thought of maybe looking there instead of in the tinned vegetable aisle?”  Yet, as the words sank in I was also formulating my reply in terms of good customer relations and raising my eyes to see the customer who was standing above me as I was on my knees stacking the lower shelves.

 

I looked up – and I was thumped again.

 

Wow!!!

 

My cock almost spontaneously combusted in my pants!!!

 

I looked up and saw the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen in my life – it wasn’t just that I thought, wow, she’s attractive – it was so much more than that – I just saw perfection and was immediately lost – from being a slightly arrogant sullen shop assistant I suddenly became a blubbering idiot unable to cope when faced with the most exquisite vision his whole life, or anyone else’s, could ever offer.

 

So instead of saying, why don’t you look in the cheese counter you silly cow?  I stood up and meekly said: “I think it may be over here Miss, if you’ll just follow me?”

 

She laughed gently and asked: “Did you call me Miss?”

 

I confirmed I had.

 

“That’s a little old-fashioned, isn’t it?” she said. “I’m sure even the best stores say Mizz these days – although personally I prefer that people use the full form – not Mizz, or Miss, but Mistress.  Don’t you think Mistress is more appropriate, somehow?”

 

I confessed: “Yes…Mistress.”

 

She smiled and said: “Well done.  I knew you had it in you.  Now show me the Mascarpone.”

 

 

When I reached the cheese counter I had no idea where to look – I so much wanted to appear efficient to this beautiful goddess – to just be able to go to the direct spot, but I could not, so I started to prevaricate – “Normally the mascarpone is here, but instead, the marketing people have put Gorgonzola here, which is also a lovely cheese…” – as if to say, it’s not my fault that I don’t know where it is.  I didn’t even know what I was looking for, and the customer did not seem interested in helping – she just stood back from the counter as if expecting me to suddenly point out where the cheese was.

 

Along the aisle, Norma, was putting out cheeses – she was one of those women that seemed constantly angry with the world – she was kind of masculine and aggressive, but a little bit of me was always quite turned on by her even though I was afraid of her.  It was with great reluctance, because of fear of her and because it meant losing my ability to impress the beautiful customer, I asked her if she knew where the Mascarpone cheese was.

 

Sullenly, she immediately pointed to it – “Aye, there,” she snapped.

 

I tried to cover up for her sullen-ness by saying to the customer: “This is where we keep the Mascarpone Cheese, Mistress.”  I could feel Nicola’s contempt at my words stab me in the back, but the customer seemed to think my grovelling respectfulness was just what was required.  She looked at the packages briefly and then indicated: “I’ll have that one.  Have it delivered!”

 

“Em – I’m sorry Mistress – I don’t think we do deliveries on single items like that, I’m afraid”, I said.  And instinctively trying to curry favour with her, I found myself saying: “I know we should, but that just seems to be the company policy.”

 

She looked directly at me, and said, in a voice so educationally at odds with her words: “I don’t give a fucking shit about your company policy.  I want this and I expect you to deliver it to me.  And I expect it delivered to me this evening by 8pm at the very latest. “

 

And then she fixed her gaze on me even more directly: “Don’t think I didn’t notice that disgusting little eruption in your pants earlier on.  Let’s cut the crap – either you do what I say or I shop you as some sexual harassing little pervert – you buy the cheese and you deliver it to me.  Why?  Because it is what I want, and that is all that matters.  We shall see if you really are capable of providing good customer service by seeing if you turn up as required.”  And then she passed me her business card.

 

And that is how I find myself, this night, walking up to an unknown house with some Mascarpone in my hands – full of dripping cheese while my heart is full of dripping fear and liquid anticipation of what my life may now be.  I look at the card, and am overwhelmed by the memory of her beauty: the beauty of Goddess Greed.  And all I long for is my life to be transformed forever when I finally make this delivery.

 

 

 

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